The Mad British

by Leick, Hera

  I hum a single note and don’t respond.

  Dinner is an exercise in forced normalcy, with Bailey and Dad talking about the game that afternoon, while I pick my way through the Sunday roast and avoid my mother's glances. It’s like high school all over again.

  I retreat to my room immediately after dinner, turn all the lights off except for the small table lamp,and open up mysketchpad.There’s enough ambient light streaming in through the window for me to see the princess smile and dance in the garden, blithely unaware that her destiny will end in tragedy.

  For as long as I’ve been hiding out, I haven’t touched the sketches I’m supposed to be working on for Camilla's book, or anything else, for that matter.

  This is what happens when you fall in love. It feels like falling into a never-ending hole of madness.

  My eyes focus on a dark smudge against one side. I lean in, squinting in the low light to better examine the mark.

  It’s a fingerprint.

  His fingerprint.

  I lower my chin without taking my eyes off the smudged print, not realising that my breath has stopped in my lungs like stagnant water. It must have been left behind from when he’d handed me the pad as I’d walked out. I stare at it a moment.

  He has left marks on my life, and I can’t ignore them no matter how many phone calls I refuse to answer, or how deeply I bury my head in the sand and hide at my parents' house, and pretend I can wait out the storm.

  One finger reaches out and traces the fingerprint, careful not to touch or smear it. In the dim light, I can barely make out the whorls and loops in the middle; a mark of his on my canvas.

  He is everywhere on me; he is in me.

  I can’t place at what point it had happened. It’s easy to point to moving in together, but it had happened before that, without me seeing. Scenes flip by in my mind like a film reel and I reflect on how a person who is so unlike me had fit so easily in my life. A knock on the door brings me out of my reverie.

  "Is that you, Bailey?"

  The door opens a crack and my brother slides through. "Can I come in?"

  I lower the pad. "Sure, fine."

  He moves a box of our mother's scrapbooking supplies out of the way and balances himself backwards on my seldom-used desk chair, crossing his arms over the back. "How's it going?"

  "Bailey, cut the crap."

  "Okay, fine." He lowers his chin to his crossed arms and focuses on a point on the floor. "I need to ask you something."

  The evening air flows through my window, ruffling some rejected pages across my bedspread, and I let them blow to the floor.

  "What is it?"

  "Um. . . " He shifts in his seat. Before he can speak, my mobile starts vibrating on my bedside table. "Want to answer that?"

  "It’s fine."

  I know who it is.

  Bailey waits until it falls silent before continuing. "Will. . . will you mind if I take Grandma Inka’s ring? Her diamond?"

  I blink. "What?"

  He still isn’t meeting my eyes. "Would you mind if I take Grandma Inka’s ring? Mum says to work it out with you because she left it to both of us, and I know you don't wear diamonds and—"

  "Of course you can—wait, hold on, why do you want. . . Bailey, are you. . . ?"

  He runs his hands through his hair when a small, bashful smile peeks out. "Um, yeah. I mean. . . "

  A shock of emotion causes me to bolt upright. "Are you serious? Oh my God, Bailey, are you really—oh my God. Oh my God. Does Chloe know? I mean, of course Chloe doesn't know, but do you think she has any idea?"

  "Uh, no."

  I throw myself off the bed and hug my brother while he’s still sitting down. He’s forced to pat my arm awkwardly as I squeeze him from behind. I’m still hysterical.

  "Oh my God, how are you going to do this? How about at Le Gavroche? It's still her favourite, right?"

  "Uh."

  "Wait, never mind, that's too public. Chloe doesn't like public. Don't even think about doing it during a Kings show, she’ll probably kill you. What about the park? At sunset or something?"

  "Um."

  "I know, that's clichéd. Can I tell Jessica? We'll think of something that will totally blow her away, I swear, and you know Jessica won't tell anyone."

  "I, uh—"

  "Please? I promise I won't tell Steffen. He'll give it away as soon as he sees Chloe. Speaking of which, I don't know how Mum kept from spilling it at dinner. You know she usually starts crying over stuff like this."

  "Uh, yeah, she was worried about you."

  I ignore him and keep going. "This is so exciting. Chloe and I are going to be actual sisters. Why didn’t you tell me before you were thinking about doing this?"

  Bailey starts swivelling on the chair. "Don't get too excited yet. It might not happen for a while."

  "Huh?" I plop down on my bed and lean against the wall. "Why not? You've got the ring and there's no reason to wait. What's the big deal?"

  He starts rubbing his hair again. "I want to wait until it gets cold and take her skiing." I nod. Chloe is forever trying, to no avail, to drag him skiing. "I’m going to ask her then. Like, put it in the middle of a snowball and give it to her."

  "Awww." I didn’t know Bailey had that much sentimentality in him.

  He leans forward on his hands. "But I don't know if I can afford it this year."

  "What do you mean?"

  "It’s just. . . work has been slow and the Astra needs some repairs. I want to move us into someplace better, or at least somewhere that doesn't have pigeons falling through chimneys. So probably next year or something, maybe. I hope."

  His wish is so bare and plaintive that I waste no time in making my decision. "Screw next year, I'm making this happen now. How much do you need?"

  "What?"

  "How much do you need?" I crawl to the end of my bed and grab my handbag. The balance in my account has remained unchanged since I’ve come to my parents' house. Plus Steffen had called to say that two more of my paintings had sold, and the advance for Camilla's book is coming soon.

  "Three thousand? That should take care of your car and probably enough for Aspen. Unless you want to do like, take her to Switzerland or something. In that case I'd better make it four."

  Bailey looks like he had just witnessed a land mine exploding under his car. "Adelaide."

  "Good thing Chloe speaks French."

  "Addie, I'm not taking your money."

  "Huh?" I open my brand-new chequebook, and think of how the first cheque I’m ever going to write is going to such a worthy cause. "Of course you are. Why not? This way you can get all that other crap out of the way and get married. She’d better make me maid of honour."

  "Will you quit? I'm not taking your money," he repeats. "It's too much."

  "Bailey, it's not a big deal."

  "Yes it is."

  "No, it's not." I raise my head, and try my best to look convincing. Doesn’t he realise he has to do this? "Come on, Bails, I can't think of a more worthy cause than you and Chloe getting married. Plus I won't miss it and I'd rather you have it and be happy."

  He’s smiling at me, but not in an amused way. "Then why did you get mad at James for doing the same thing?"

  I lower my pen. "That's different."

  "How?" He rolls the chair closer to me, and I’m forced to meet my brother's eyes. We have the same eyes. It’s like looking into a strange, gender-bending mirror sometimes. "He just wants you to be happy."

  "He lied to me. . . All this time he’s been lying to me. . .” My chest tightens, burns. “Do you know how hard it was for me to trust another man?”

  He nods. “But James is nothing like Ethan.”

  “I know. I know he isn’t. I’m not even comparing that arsehole to James. But. . . what I’m trying to say is. . .” I close my eyes and pause for a minute to breathe. “It’s easier to run away.” I open them again and look out at the stars in the night sky. “I don’t think I could handle the pain again. So
why not just cut him off before he can really, truly, hurt me?”

  He chews on his lips for a bit. “I really don't think he meant what he said to you."

  "How do you know?"

  "I talked to him."

  "What? When?"

  "On the phone last night. Addie, really, he poured his heart out to his girlfriend's brother. If he really meant it, I think he would do his best to avoid me and a beat down."

  One of my pillows makes its way into my arms, and I fold my body round it. "What did he say?"

  "He said that he didn’t mean it, and that he was just angry because he found out you’d talked to Ethan, and that he’s a stupid jealous bastard, and he must have apologised a thousand times about it and asked me to talk to you because you're not picking up your phone."

  The offending object is blinking with a new voicemail message. "I don't know what to say to him."

  "Well then," Bailey says, standing up. "Why don't you just listen?"

  He is almost out of the door before I call him back. "Bailey?"

  He stops and turns. "Yeah?"

  I smile and hold out a slip of paper. "If you don't take it, I'm going to deposit it into your account anyway."

  Bailey looks at the floor briefly, seeming to struggle with an internal decision, before taking the cheque from me. "I'll pay you back."

  "You'd better not," I say. "Consider it a wedding gift."

  "Can you do me a favour?"

  "Need to borrow petrol money now?" I chuckle, and then stop when I realise his face is serious. "What is it?"

  He nods toward my mobile. "At least give him some courtesy and stop ignoring his calls."

  "I . . .” I start, and the tear that’s been threatening to fall finally surfaces. "Bailey, he never hung up my painting."

  He sits down on my bed and pulls in for a hug. "That doesn't mean anything," he murmurs into my hair.

  I take a trembling breath. "No. . . it means everything."

  My mother knocks lightly on the door. "Adelaide, sweetie?"

  "Yes?"

  "There's someone here for you." My mother hesitates. "He says his name is Travis O’Neil and then he said: Tell her James’ dog is here and that he needs a walk.”

  Oh crap. . .

  27

  Queen

  “HERE, HAVE SOME more cake."

  Lassie certainly is good with mothers. I watch my mother shovel another slice of chocolate cake in front of Travis. He knows just the right compliment and wide-eyed expression to bring out the maternal smothering of a woman. My elbows are aching from leaning them on the kitchen table for so long. I pull back and rub them with my palms while pulling my feet onto the chair.

  "Adelaide put your feet down. More tea?" My mother refills his cup without waiting for an answer. If I don’t stop this current tide, there will be a roast lamb in the oven in no time.

  "Thanks, Mrs Queen."

  My mother slides into an empty seat and cups her hands round her teacup. "What do you do, Travis? You look like a very creative person."

  His eyebrows wag at the compliment. "I'm retired."

  My mum laughs softly. "Oh, at such a young age. How nice."

  "Indeed, Mrs Queen, but I mess around with a blog sometimes, and I buy a lot of commercial real estate. But other than that, I'm fully enjoying my permanent exit from the workforce." He slurps a mouthful of tea. "Great tea. Organic?"

  I note my mother's smile is frozen in place. "Are you sure you're a friend of James’?"

  "His nearest and dearest. Do you know if it's fair trade or not? No worries if it's not. But I know a guy that grows his own organic leaf in Costa Rica. I can hook you up."

  The back door bangs open and Bailey enters, unhooking the dog from his leash. "You guys sure you don't want to come back with me tonight? I've got to leave soon."

  "Nope, we're good," Travis says before I can get a word in. He had barely been in my house for five minutes before declaring he’s my ride back into London, despite showing up without a car.

  "I'm going with you, Bailey," I say.

  Travis chokes on his cake. "I thought you were coming back with me."

  Now my mother is looking at me sideways. "Travis came all this way, dear."

  I nearly double over. "Without. A. Car. Bailey has a car. I'm going with him."

  "Adelaide." Travis says my name in the same manner as James does sometimes: a bit too brusque to be polite, but with enough gravitas to make me sit up and pay attention.

  We catch each other's glances across the table and I find myself pinned under his piercing stare. I can’t look away from Travis. James’ usually flippant, carefree friend is temporarily absent, and in his place is the cutthroat businessman I’d heard all about from James.

  "I need to talk with you. You know what this is about. Then I promise I will take you back with no argument."

  Despite my earlier promise, I give in. "All right."

  With those two words, he drops his fork and slides back into the easy grin of a lifelong chronic. "All righty. Want to take me for that walk now?"

  My mother makes me take a jumper. November nights are colder now, and the streetlight pops on to blend with the front light of the house, illuminating the chalk drawings on the pavement that some child has left behind.

  I breathe in the smell of fading heat and mown grass and wonder where all the butterflies have gone. They used to always be around, and now it seems they have faded away.

  "Where are we going?"

  Travis is craning his neck, checking out the modest houses along the street. "You lived here. You tell me."

  "Then why did you. . . ? Okay, whatever." I nod up ahead at the corner. "We can go to the park. It's a couple of blocks that way."

  "Let's do that. Hey." I turn to face him, shoving my hands in my pockets. In the distance, an ambulance siren blares, and a few dogs join in. Travis shifts and pulls a hand out of his pocket and scratches his nose. "Sorry I barged in on you. I figured you wouldn’t answer your phone if I’d called."

  "No, I, uh, would have." The volume and pitch of my voice is too high; he will know I’m lying. But he doesn’t call me out on it, thankfully.

  We reach the park right as the last natural light vanishes, revealing a shining quarter moon. It reminds me of the storybook princesses that James’ sister writes, so I force my eyes to look at the ground instead.

  "We used to come here a lot," I tell him, when we cross the grass over to the swing sets, kicking dead leaves out of the way. "Bailey and I. They used to have these really heavy animal swings. They were made out of metal or something. Mine was a seahorse." I smile and settle back into a swing. Travis drops into the one next to me, and almost by instinct, we both kick slightly and start swinging. "I named mine Seahorse."

  "Original."

  "I know, right?" The bottom of my Chuck Taylor scrapes the sparse gravel under the swing, kicking up clouds of dust. "Bailey's was a dog, except he would call it The Wolf. I thought all dogs were wolves until I was like, eight. I told the other kids we had a baby wolf and they all laughed at me." I smile at Travis. "So Bailey came and beat them up for me."

  "Hmm," Travis says. "He's a good brother. He looks out for you." The swing chains clang against the metal frame as we sway back and forth. "A lot of people do." I lower my face and remain silent. Travis is a persistent bastard. "It's okay to let them."

  It feels like a swath of hot fire cuts through my heart. "You don't have to do this."

  "Do what?" His feet hit the ground, skidding to a standstill, and then he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small shiny object. "Wanna burn?"

  "Huh?" A crumpled plastic Ziploc bag comes out next. Travis reaches inside and pinches a bud between his fingers, then breaks off a small piece and packs it into his pipe in his other hand.

  I blink, incredulous. "You—you brought weed?"

  "No. What’re you, mad?" he huffs. "You can't go through airport security checkpoints with freaking bud on you."

  "So where d
id you—"

  "I bought it at the corner shop at the end of your street, right before I came over."

  "Are you kidding? Mrs Yang's store?"

  He pulls a flat square out of his pocket and strikes a match. I’ve never seen anyone light a pipe that way. He takes a few quick inhaling breaths, sucking in the smoke before it can curl away, and shakes out the match.

  "Yeah, Mrs Yang—" His face scrunches into a mass of crinkles, hacking out a lungful of smoke. "Has a gardening business on the side—ah." He bends slightly and coughs some more. "Sorry. My sinuses get all dry from that crappy recycled air on the plane."

  I haven’t smoked pot since I was nineteen, but I accept the offering in slightly trembling fingers. "Don't you have a lighter?" I ask, when he passes the matchbox.

  He helps relight the smouldering buds with a match. "And add more bullshit plastic to the over-capacity landfills? Screw that. There's enough micro-plastic in the ecosystem to give us birth defects for the next three generations, and it’s all added in the last half of the twentieth—"

  "Okay—" I cough out a huge cloud of scorching smoke. My throat burns.

  Travis brings the pipe to his lips again and strikes a match one-handed. He obviously has it down to a science. He takes another huge hit, holds it in, and then exhales a smoke plume the size of a small zeppelin. "Ugh. This shit's harsh. Probably grown in shitty dirt, goddamn bumpkins."

  "Travis."

  "What?"

  I take the pipe again. "I know you're not here to assess the quality of weed in my neighbourhood."

  "What? You don't know that." He twirls back and forth on his swing seat. "Maybe I'm here to specifically check out the weed in small town England. A weed tour, if you will."

  Taking another hit, my head begins to inflate and fuzz away. "Travis."

  "The next town over looks promising. Lots of bakery shops. You don't put those up unless you have a significant stoner population. Those and twenty-four-hour McDonald’s."

  "Travis."

  "What?" His eyes are beginning to get glassy. "Hey, when we're done here, we should go to Juice Me in Camden Town. They have this slushie thing called a Juicy Orange, and it tastes like a real orange." He wipes his face with the back of his sleeve. "Or we like, get a real orange. Oh, but then it's not cold. The coldness is the goodness of the Juicy Orange."